Not Coming Home
by Verdreht
Summary: After everything that's happened with this Verone mess, Brian could think of a few people that might be showing up with a score to settle. But when a familiar face turns up at Tej's, it's the last person Brian would have ever expected to come looking for him, and the last person he wanted to see. non-canon coda to 2 Fast 2 Furious Dom/Brian slash
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is a non-canon coda to 2 Fast 2 Furious. I've already done one from Dom's PoV ("Won't Go Home Without You" - ironically, another Maroon 5 song), but I wanted to play a little more with it, so I came up with a different plot for Brian's PoV. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own...any of this. And that's probably for the best. _

* * *

Sometimes, Brian's honest-to-God amazed he's still breathing. All the stupid shit he does, it's damn near miraculous he hasn't died horribly.

Take the last forty-eight hours, for instance. Since the day before yesterday, he's screwed over the boss of one of the biggest cartels in the Americas; he's stared down more gun barrels than he really wants to think about, in the interest of sleeping soundly again in the near…_ever_; and then there's his _piece de resistance_. He can't forget that.

No, seriously. He can't forget it. Even if he wanted to, which he kind of really does – the four beers he's downed since he and Rome made it back to Tej's place a little over an hour ago aren't really doing the trick, but he's holding out hope for the other six that're still chilling in the mini-fridge – he's pretty sure every nerve ending in his body has teamed up to remind him that, yeah, he really did crash a car onto a moving yacht five hours ago, and no, it wasn't a soft landing.

He wishes he could say he's broken his record for crazy, but that'd be a lie. That award goes to the second he decided – did he decide? It kind of just…happened – to hand Dom his keys and go on the lamb in his place. Or maybe it should go to the moment he agreed to go on that drive to the beach with the guy.

Hell, maybe it should go to the moment he flipped open that damn folder with Dom's name on it and hadn't gone screaming in the opposite direction.

It's too hard to decide between them and, now that he thinks about it, every other stupid life decision he made those couple of months, so he just files the whole thing under 'crazy clusterfuck' and tries not to think about how quick he'd do the whole damn thing over again if he got the chance.

Like he said – it's damn near miraculous he hasn't died horribly.

Yet, anyway. Every time he moves, though, he can feel his ribs, chest, head, and oddly, his left elbow all vying for a chance to finish the job.

It's kind of hard to bitch, though, when Rome's sitting right across from him in a cast and a sling. And he might've taken a sharpie to the former when Rome was passed out in the car on the way here – he's got a few ideas, too, for when he inevitably passes out on the table in the garage – but he'll keep that to himself.

Instead, he decides to give another one of those beers a go, which is kind of a trade-off, because it means getting up and pissing off his _everything_ again. He'll probably grab a couple this time, he thinks. The only thing that stopped him before was not wanting his beer to get warm, but at the rate he's choking them down, he's figures that's probably a non-issue.

"Hey, bruh, grab me one, too," Rome says as Brian makes his way across the garage over to the mini-fridge. It's kind of creepy seeing it this empty, but everyone's still kind of scattered from the scramble, laying low for a little while, so it's just him and Rome sitting around drinking beer at one of the white plastic tables.

"Thought you weren't supposed to mix medications," Brian replies. Rome just popped one of those codeines the doc gave him when they went and got his arm fixed up – nothing bad, just a hairline fracture – and even though Brian's not too worried about the two beers Rome's polished off, he's thinking three or more might be pushing it.

All the same, he grabs a couple extra. If Rome doesn't drink 'em, then God only knows he will.

Rome's grinning when he straightens back up, and Brian knows it's the look he gets when he's about to say something he thinks is smart.

"Shit, man, this stuff is the Pierce family multi-vitamin," he says, shaking the orange pill bottle for emphasis. "'Sides, with that weak ass shit, I might as well be drinking water."

Brian starts to open his mouth, tell Rome that he can buy his own beer next time if he's got a problem with Coronas, but he gets a better idea and, after grabbing something else from the fridge, walks back over to the table and sits a bottle of water down in front of his friend.

"There you go, then. Drink up."

Rome looks down at the water, then back up at him. "That's real cute, Brian."

Brian just smiles and twists the cap off another beer. He's seeing himself getting very drunk in the near future, for reasons he's trying real hard not to think about right now, and he's thinking the more, the merrier.

It takes about three seconds and two sips for it to sink in with Rome that he ain't playing. His face falls.

"That ain't funny, Brian."

Brian shrugs innocently and keeps smiling. "It is to me." Least that's what he's gonna keep telling himself, because he's pretty intent on keeping his mind on anything but that _thing_ he's not gonna think about.

Just because he's a good friend, and Rome did save his ass a few hours ago, Brian slides one of the beers across the table towards him. The rest are staying with him, though, and he's trying to remember if they polished off the rest of that fifth last week, or if there might still be some under the counter. If these beers don't work, he'll hit that later. It's not like he's got anywhere he's got to be, and even though it's not really his style to get shit-faced – his family's got a history of "addictive personalities," and he's seen what happens when O'Conner's mix with alcohol on too regular a basis – he's thinking he can make an exception just for tonight. He's earned it.

"What's with you?"

Rome's voice snaps Brian out of his head, and he looks up. Apparently, he's been staring holes in the table for the past who-knows-how-long. Because that's a good sign.

He covers it up with another pull from his Corona, and he leans back in his chair as far as he can without the shitty plastic number falling over. "Nothing, man," he says.

"Bullshit."

That's the problem with hanging with someone that's known you for so long, Brian thinks. They actually _know_ you. Brian hasn't had to deal with that since…shit, since _Dom_.

And they're right back to that thing he's not gonna think about.

"Hold up," Rome says all of the sudden, and Brian's not sure if he should be worried that he can pretty much _see_ the light bulb over his head as he leans forward over the table. "Don't tell me this is about Monica."

Brian wants to flinch, because even though that's not a bullseye, Rome's a lot closer to the mark than he's comfortable with. He doesn't, though. He knows he doesn't. He's better than that. Too long playing a role, hiding reactions starts to come natural.

Not that it matters. He doesn't have to do or say anything, because Rome's already got an idea in his head, and he's sticking with it, whether it's right or not.

"That's what it is, ain't it? You're all bent about that female." Now _he's_ the one smiling, and Brian kind of really wants to throw his now-empty bottle at his face. This distance, he wouldn't miss. "Shit, man, it's always about the females with you."

"Yeah," Brian says, and his voice sounds a little duller than he wants it to. Thinner. It's true that Monica's got something to do with it, but she's so far from the real problem, it'd be funny if he wasn't so screwed.

Rome notices. Of course he does, Brian thinks; even after all the shit, Rome probably knows him better than anyone. But he doesn't know everything, and it's that part he's missing that's got Brian's head in a spin-out.

"Can't believe we brought down a drug lord, and your ass is sittin' here sulking 'cause she wasn't into you."

"It's not like that," Brian mumbles.

Rome raises an eyebrow. "Then what's it like?"

And Brian's not really sure how to answer that. He means, he knows what he _wants_ to say, knows what he _should_ say, but those two things aren't really the same, and so he's kind of fumbling. "It's just…I thought I got her, you know?" he says. "The whole deep-cover shit…mine wasn't that long, but I know what it's like being in that deep. I thought she got me, too, but…" He trails off, because he's hit the border: the things he can say, and the things he doesn't think he should. The things he's not sure he _can_.

"But what, Brian?" Rome pushes. He's abandoned his beer, and Brian can't help thinking he looks a little too focused for someone on narcotics and two and a half bottles.

He shakes his head. "Never mind." He's not ready to have this conversation.

Which sucks for him, he guesses, because turns out Rome's not ready to let it go.

"_But what, Brian_," he repeats, and there's a reason the kids back in the yard used to call him Bulldog, because the man just doesn't know how to let things go. He sure as hell won't now, not looking at him like that.

He guesses, if he has to fess up to somebody, it might as well be Rome. Might as well be the only family Brian hasn't managed to fuck up.

"You remember that guy I told you about, back in LA?" he says. He's got his eyes fixed squarely on the empty Corona bottle sitting on the table in front of him, and he twists it back and forth, watching the way it catches the light in the garage.

"The guy you let go? Yeah, I remember." There's a pause, and then, "Don't tell me you went fairy for him."

Brian can tell he's joking, probably trying to lighten up the heaviness that's settled in the air, and Brian lets himself smile a little, if only because that's easier than giving the comment any serious thought. That's not a conversation he's ready to have, either. Not even with himself.

It's not the fairy part that gets him, mind – a good body's a good body, no matter what it's on, and he really doesn't give a shit what that makes him. He likes what he likes on who he likes, and worrying about that other stuff is just a waste.

Except that _who_ part in there's tripping him up this time, and a little of the _why_. That's what he doesn't want to think about. That's what Monica _made_ him think about.

"She didn't let hers go," he says after what's probably too long a silence.

"What?"

"Monica." He sighs, and ow, shit, his ribs hurt a little more than he thought. The sad thing is, he's kind of glad for the distraction. Makes it easier to get the words out when he's not thinking too hard about them. "She didn't let Verone go. She had a shot, but she took him down."

Rome makes a face. "So?"

"I didn't."

It takes a little bit longer than three seconds this time around – or maybe it just feels that way – but he sees it on Rome's face when it hits him.

"Oh," he says, and it's hard to tell from just that how much he's pieced together, but Brian figures he's pretty much got the gist of his dilemma. Monica let her guy go; Brian gave him his keys.

He refuses to think about what else he might've given him. His career and his whole fucking life in LA's bad enough without throwing anything even more pathetic in the mix.

Instead, he just leans back in his chair again, and tries not to wince, because _fuck_, his everything hurts. He wonders briefly if Rome would mind parting with one of those _multi-vitamins_ of his, but he's not really considering it. He hates that shit. Hates feeling like his brain's been scooped out and stuffed with feathers, hates feeling like all the world's edges have been smudged. It's not worth it. He'll take some aspirin, he thinks, and pray that Rome turns in and passes out _in that order_, because he's pretty positive he can't carry his ass.

They don't get quiet after that like Brian thinks they should. They talk shit about Verone, crack jokes about his henchmen, and he thinks Rome's meds might be kicking in, because although he wishes he could've seen the dude's face when Rome ejector-seated his ass, he doesn't think it could've been _that_ funny. Rome's laughing like he's about to piss himself.

So, when the guy goes to reach for another beer – they're down to two between them; Brian's had six already, and he's feeling pleasantly buzzed, and Rome's had four, and Brian's pretty sure he's high as a kite – Brian pulls it out of his reach.

"Nah, man," he says, and he's smiling a little too now, because it's fun to screw with Rome, "I think you've had enough."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

Brian just smiles wider. "Now who's sulking?" And for a second, he thinks Rome's about to be mad, but then he busts out laughing again. "I rest my—" He pauses when Rome suddenly stops laughing. "What? What is it?"

Rome's sobered up awfully fast, and Brian would be impressed if he wasn't too busy wondering what the hell Rome's looking at over his shoulder.

"You expecting company?" Rome says.

That doesn't help Brian any. "What?"

Instead of an answer, Rome just kind of nods towards the space over Brian's shoulder. Brian turns around to see what he's looking at, and—

And turns right back around.

"Brian?" Rome says, but Brian's not listening. About ten thousand things whip through his head over a span of what feels like an hour, but what's probably really closer to half a second, and then they just…stop. Because he knows what's about to happen. He has no illusions about what's about to go down, and what _He_ is here to do, and there's something strangely calming about all that knowing.

Still…

This is really gonna hurt.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading, and please review! My words run on yours. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

The only warning Brian gets is Rome's eyes widening before he feels something warm and solid clamp down on the back of his neck, and the next thing he knows, he's sliding across the poured concrete on his side for a good two, three feet.

Surprise, more than pain – shit, though, that's there in fucking spades, too – knocks loose a grunt from the back of his throat. Soon as he remembers how to breathe properly again, though, he's rolling over onto his front to push himself up.

He hears the skud of plastic scooting quickly across the floor, and as he's scrambling to his feet, he catches Rome coming around the table.

"No!" he says quickly. "Stay out of this, Rome." Because the last thing he needs is Rome and his broke ass arm getting involved in _his_ fight.

If you could call it that. "Fight" makes it sound like there are two sides going at each other. Brian hasn't even gotten his balance back when Dom's hand grabs his shoulder and jerks him around, and Brian doesn't see the right hook heading for his face until it's already there.

It's the hardest punch Brian thinks he's ever taken; at least, that's how he remembers it after the fact. Right now, he's too busy stumbling back into one of the half-stack standing tool boxes, and he guesses this is what happens when a guy like Dom lets loose two years of pent-up fury.

"Brian!" It's Rome, and when Brian's vision clears enough – his eyes have welled up from the beating his nose just took, and there's something wet on his face, but he's not really sure the two are related – he realizes Rome's moving towards him.

Problem is, so's Dom. He thinks he might manage to shout at Rome to back off, but he can't really be sure. Not with two-hundred-plus pounds of muscle and righteous fury coming at him. And fuck, when Dom grabs him, his feet actually leave the ground. His back finds it pretty quick right after.

Any air Brian's managed to suck in during this whole shitfest leaves his lungs in a mix between a grunt and a groan. He sees stars for a second, and it's only training and years of people trying to kick the shit out of him that give him the presence of mind to get his legs around Dom's waist and pull him down to his level. He can't beat Dom throwing punches – he's not trying to, really, but instinct can only be ignored so much – but if he can get inside those freakishly strong punches, and hold him there, he might get out of this with his face in one piece.

For a second, he actually thinks about calling out to Rome, who he can see standing just off to the side with a freaked-out look on his face, but Dom's next words kill the words on his lips.

"—came into my house," he's grinding through his teeth like oil through gears as he fights to get Brian off him, and Brian fights just as hard to hold on. "You lied to me!"

Suddenly, Brian's back lifts off the ground. Dom's got him by a bruising grip on his upper arms, and with Brian's legs around his waist, he actually gets him a good few feet up before he slams him right back down.

Brian actually thinks he blacks out for a second. Just a second, but _fuck_, he thinks, if Dom gives him another slam like that, it'll be a toss-up on what breaks first: his spine or his skull. And Brian's not scared of a whole hell of a lot, but a sudden flash of panic stabs his chest, because there's a difference between getting beat up and getting broken, and this is getting too fucking close to that line.

It's like a shot of NOS in his veins. In an instant, he's jerking forward, throwing his body to one side and hooking his arm around the back of Dom's neck. And holy shit, he's thick, but Brian manages to get his arm all the war around and get his wrist in a bar. If it's between getting his skull cracked open on the concrete and choking Dom out, he's _gonna_ choke him out. Settling a score's one thing; it's kind of hard to apologize when his brain's on the fucking floor.

Dom's not going down easy, though. He shoves his hands flat into Brian's already-bruised ribs, and Brian realizes with another stab of alarm that it's actually getting kind of hard to breathe. The pressure, the _searing_ pain in his chest…his head's starting to swim.

"You sold us out!" Dom growls, and his voice sounds too loud and too quiet at the same time. It's all muffled, and Brian's really not sure how much of it's how he's holding him and how much of it's the pounding between his ears. It doesn't help that he punctuates it with a fist into Brian's side, and if he does that again, Brian knows something's breaking.

He doesn't let go, though. If anything, he holds tighter, with this desperate sort of energy that's nothing but adrenaline and freakish, irrational panic. "I didn't sell you out!" he shouts as much as he can. And that's true, because he never once set anyone on Dom or his team. Never. That doesn't make up for everything else he _did_ do, but at least his conscience has that.

Not that Dom's gonna see it that way.

"You used Mia!"

"That's bullshit!" Which probably isn't the best defense, but it's the first one Brian's addled brain can come up with. Because it's true. He loved Mia. Still does, even if it's not what it was. He loves all of them, and the thought that he used any of them—

Brian realizes his mistake too late. He got distracted, his grip loosened, and before Brian can react, Dom breaks loose of the hold and gets him by the front of the shirt, tugging him up until his shoulders leave the ground.

"Bullshit?" Dom thunders. "You destroyed my family for a job, O'Conner!" And he draws back his fist and swings it straight at Brian's—

"I gave it up!" The words tumble out of Brian's mouth without his consent, just as he's steeling himself for the punch that he's pretty sure's gonna put his lights out.

It never comes.

Dom's stopped. His fist is still raised, and Brian knows it'd be too fucking easy for him to go through with it. Part of Brian wishes he would; anything would be better than that look Dom's giving him: nose flared, lips downturned into a grimace that looks almost…_pained_, and his eyes burning with something Brian can't really place. In his defense, though, he's not really firing on all cylinders.

"Get up," Dom says finally.

Brian can barely swallow past the lump in his throat, but he manages a breathless, "What?"

Dom's face hardens. Instead of repeating himself, though, he stands, and thanks to his grip on Brian's shirt, Brian doesn't have much choice but to come up with him. That same grip ends up being the only thing keeping Brian on his feet when all the blood rushes out of his head and the garage suddenly tips on its side. The edges of his vision darken for a second, and blood roars in his ears, and he feels a hand close over his upper arm again.

Maybe its wishful thinking, but it feels a little less bruising this time, and he kind of hopes it's intentional.

When his vision clears, though, Dom's still looking at him with that same steely look as before. "Think it's time you and I had a talk," he says, and his voice is dead even.

It's scary, Brian thinks, how quick he went from shouting to this. He thinks he might almost prefer the shouting.

Part of him wants to tell Dom to fuck off. He's had a long ass day, and his everything hurts, and he kind of just wants to crawl back to his boat and pretend the world outside doesn't exist for a few weeks. Besides, he realizes, when he feels something tickle his upper lip and drags the back of his arm across it, that his nose is bleeding. Gushing, maybe's a better word. It's all down the front of his shirt, and he can taste it on his tongue. He doesn't think it's broken, but he's not looking forward to the morning.

"Brian." The grip on his arm tightens, and Brian kind of snaps out of whatever daze he's in – like he said, not on all cylinders – to see Dom watching him intently. It's probably the concussion talking, but he thinks, buried there somewhere in those dark eyes that are suddenly a hell of a lot closer than he remembers them being, there might be something that looks a hell of a lot like worry.

Logically, he tells himself that doesn't make sense. Dom's the one that was just wailing on him; he wouldn't be worried about him. But he decides, just this once, to let himself go with it. After the day he's had, he thinks he deserves at least that tiny bit of comfort, even if it's just a lie.

"Brian."

Shit, he did it again.

"Yo, man, why don't you lay off him?"

Brian shoots Rome a look that he hopes shows his gratitude. He's not sure whether or not it works, but Rome looks ruffled, so he's thinking probably not as well as he wants it to.

Dom slow-glances back at him – that thing he does with his eyebrow and a slight tilt…yeah, that's the one – and Brian suddenly wishes he had a facial expression for 'please, bro, don't go picking a fight.' He knows Rome could probably hold his own, even with his broke ass arm, but he really doesn't feel like trying to break up a fight. Especially not one on his account.

He figures the best thing to do, then, is to get them as far away as possible as quick as possible. "You wanna talk?" he says, and he mentally claps himself on the back when he gets Dom's attention back on him. "We'll talk. Come on; my boat's out back." He sounds a lot more confident than he feels, and he thinks he walks a lot more steadily than he is.

"What the hell are you doing, Brian?" Rome's voice sounds an awful lot like a snarl as he jogs to catch up with Brian. Dom's let go of Brian's arm, thank God, and he's walking a few feet back.

It doesn't escape Brian's notice how much easier it is to breathe, now.

"I got it, bro," Brian tells him, his voice low.

Rome scowls even deeper. "That mother tried to _kill_ you two minutes ago," Rome hisses.

Brian actually chuckles a little bit at that. Rome doesn't know Dom. Obviously, or else he'd know that if Dom was _trying_ to kill Brian, he'd at least have come a hell of a lot closer. Brian sure as hell wouldn't be walking away on his own power.

"Just trust me, would you?"

"Oh, I trust you. I trust you to do something stupid." Which is probably fair, Brian thinks, but he's going to argue anyway when Rome beats him to the punch. "This is the guy from LA, isn't it?" He asks like he already knows, like it's just hit him.

Brian nods. "Yeah," he says. "It's him."

_It's always been him._


End file.
